


A Trifling Matter

by wordybirdy



Series: From Trifle to Infinity [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Humor, First Time, M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-31
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Holmes broods, Watson ogles, and a mystery of no small import gradually unravels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I started up from my evening paper as Sherlock Holmes barrelled forcefully into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street one dreary, damp late Monday in the early March of 1886. He was muttering under his breath, the gist of which I could not quite grasp but assumed to be no little out of sorts and most certainly ill tempered.

“Good evening, Holmes, whatever is the matter?” I enquired, as my friend spun around from his chemistry table upon which he had just cast the detritus of his trouser pockets and a handful of coins.

“Watson? Good evening. It is nothing. Nothing. I have had a somewhat trying day, that is quite all.” Holmes flung himself unceremoniously upon the sofa and scrabbled for his pipe and tobacco. Filling his black clay with the usual potent mixture that was his preference when in a thoughtful mood, he cast a match, lit and sucked deeply and contemplatively.

“It must certainly have been trying for you to be hurling yourself around now like a bear with the sorest of heads,” I admonished with fond concern. “Would you care to talk about it; is it a new case, perhaps?”

Holmes flashed a glare in my direction and puffed on his pipe. “No, it is not a new case. Rather the re-emergence of an old one and I do not as yet have all the data, my dear fellow. Now, please,” (here he paused to flutter the fingers of his left hand rapidly against his temple) “give me a few minutes and do carry on with your paper, there’s a good man.”

Only partially mollified but now entirely curious I obediently ducked my head back behind the Evening News and attempted to focus myself upon the article which I had been engaged in before the sitting room door had all but ricocheted off its hinges two minutes previously. A furtive peek cast over the top of the paper revealed only that Holmes had not moved but remained perched, tense and upright on the sofa, a steady puff and plume of smoke the only indication that he was, in fact, breathing and I was not gawping fantastically at a substituted waxwork facsimile.

Some twenty minutes passed in this fashion, during which I read little and peeped much. I am bound to confess that it is my guiltiest pleasure to observe my friend while he is in such a study of meditation, for his countenance does yet change so subtly and still significantly that it amuses me to an attempt at his own methods by deducing the pattern of thought via the furrow of his brow and the quirk of his lip. I am rarely successful, but that does not lessen the pleasure of the practice.

A second too late did I notice that Holmes was observing me from the corner of one eye, so distracted had I been as to move my scrutiny south of his brooding, majestic facial features to engross myself in the fold of his grey waistcoat, the smooth line of his white shirt beneath, up to the press of the firm collar against a soft neck, and --

“Watson!” Sharply.

“Holmes?!”

“You are quite one hundred miles away, whatever are you staring at that has you so occupied?” Holmes twitched a glance over his shoulder at the brightly crackling fireplace. “Well, at the very least the hearth rug hasn’t caught fire -- although I would have assumed it to have done so, as fascinated as you seem to be by it.”

“I…was not staring at the hearth rug, Holmes.” A small ache, somewhere, refusing to be classified. “In fact, I was not looking at anything in particular. I was, perhaps, rather wondering if it was too early to call down to Mrs. Hudson for dinner? I believe she is preparing an excellent roast beef, and we have still an unopened bottle of Bordeaux which would go very nicely with it.” Bluster, transparent, surely he sees through it all, he can only be humouring my prattle.

“I will gladly take a glass of Bordeaux with you,” said he, “but I have no appetite. You forget that I breakfasted with you only this morning.”

I did not counter that I considered one soft boiled egg and a single slice of lightly buttered toast scarcely sufficient fuel for one day. For I have lived with Holmes for too many years (five) and am familiar enough by now with all of his habits (dietary and otherwise) to know that nagging in this instance will most often result in quite the opposite desired effect: that of driving Holmes backwards either into his bedroom or briefly out and away from 221B with a hiss and a spit rather than in the preferred direction of the dining table.

“As you wish,” I replied, “but I think I shall call down now anyway, for I am quite famished.”

By some miracle it was Mrs. Hudson herself who managed to persuade Holmes to take the tiniest portion of beef and vegetables, which he accepted with the barest side dish of protest. We sat together at the table, and I ate with enthusiastic relish while he merely chivvied the potatoes around on his plate and scowled at the gravy. The wine was excellent and full bodied, and I felt its warmth relax me sufficiently to again venture enquiry as to the manner of the day my friend had passed. Holmes shrugged irritably and leaned back in his chair, to my resignation apparently abandoning any pretence at eating.

“A trifling matter, Watson. I do not wish to speak of it any further this evening, for I am quite weary enough of the whole business and fear the detail would bore you.” He set his lips to a thin line and cast his attention to the tines of his fork. I nodded but took care not to show my disappointment; instead refilling our wine glasses and steering the conversation away towards other, more agreeable topics. After the conclusion of our meal and our landlady having cleared away the dishes, we sat by the fire and smoked our cigars in a companionable silence. The wind howled outside, the chill of Winter’s end still yet doing its level best to force its way past the window frames and ripple at the curtains. I confess that I was most heartily glad that for tonight, at least, we were snug and warm inside 221B and not obliged to be haring around the dark streets in pursuit of half the criminals of London who, thank heavens, had been keeping fairly quiet of late.

Holmes flicked the last ash of his cigar into the fire with a low sigh. His long, pale fingers moved across to his waistcoat pocket, and he fumbled there for a second before withdrawing empty handed and with a curiously blank expression on his face.

“Watson,” he said, looking across to me, “I believe I will have an early night of it. No, I’m quite all right, my dear fellow, don’t be concerned. I will see you in the morning. Goodnight.” Whereupon he swiftly stood and smiled at me, pausing only to collect a book he was currently reading from the side table before retreating to his bedroom, a few seconds after which I heard the lamp being lit and his erratic, pacing tread on the floorboards.


	2. Chapter 2

I had arisen and made my toilet by 9 o’clock the Tuesday morning, before venturing forth into the comfortless grey London drizzle to visit Bradley’s of Oxford Street for my weekly supply of ship’s tobacco. Upon my return I found that Holmes was still abed, so sat myself down alone for a late breakfast of bacon, eggs and coffee. As Mrs. Hudson bustled around me with the china a sudden thought occurred to me.

“Mrs. Hudson, did you happen to meet with Mr. Holmes upon his return home yesterday evening?”

The lady turned and nodded her head, eyes wide.  
“Yes, I certainly did, Doctor, and he was most vexed. When I passed across to him the note which had been delivered only a few minutes before, why, I thought he would strike the hall vase from its plinth.” Here the good woman paused to raise her hands in perplexity before continuing: “It’s not the value of it so much as the sentiment - I’m sure you understand - and I was so glad that Mr. Holmes refrained, for I hate to see him so.”

“A note had been delivered? Did you read what it contained?”  
“No, Doctor, naturally I did not, for it was sealed in an envelope and addressed to Mr. Holmes himself. A young gentleman brought it to the door, I had not seen him before, and I could not say that I would recognise him again. He was smartly dressed and well spoken, Doctor.”

“And Mr. Holmes read the note while he was standing with you?”  
“Yes, Doctor, he did, and it affected him quite oddly, as I have said. He stamped away up the stairs without another word to me.” Mrs. Hudson passed an anxious look to me. “I do hope that it was not bad news.”

“I am sure it was nothing but another unwelcome invite to a Spring black tie event - and you know as well as I do how Holmes abhors such social gatherings,” said I, smiling in my attempt to placate her. “I shall speak with him about it later. Thank you for the breakfast, Mrs. Hudson.”

Whereupon the lady nodded once more and bustled out of the sitting room, closing the door quietly behind her. I sipped my coffee and frowned. My eyes roved the room until they fell upon the small pile of Holmes’s belongings which had been emptied out onto the chemistry table the previous evening. I stood and walked across to idly examine them; I did not imagine that he would mind my doing so. Some coins, a small magnifier, a pencil stub, a faded receipt, a silver pocket watch (ill-used and broken), and… a blue glass eye, I noted finally with some amusement. Nothing resembling a note or envelope. Having completed my superficial search I began to hear movement and splashes from the direction of Holmes’s bedroom, and so returned to my place at the breakfast table. Perhaps you would call me overly inquisitive; a euphemism for “busybody”, most likely. I would ask you to forgive me that. The days are long stretched without casework to keep me occupied, and I have no medical duties currently other than those of attending to my friend’s recurrent scuffs, bumps and abrasions. Life would be the lesser without these minor intrigues.

Holmes emerged at last, fresh and smart as he invariably always was, in a well tailored black suit. He was heading out somewhere on business or expecting a visitor to our rooms, I mused idly. I took the liberty of admiring his approach, the singular grace of his movement which never failed to divert my eye. I was pleased to observe that his demeanour appeared much improved from the previous evening. He smiled at me warmly, wished me a good morning and set upon preparing his habitual breakfast pipe of the assorted plugs and dottles from the day before. It was an endearing eccentricity of his, and I watched him now as he walked towards me at the table, squinting with pleasure at the first draw of the morning on the black clay pipe.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Watson?” asked he, with a twinkle. “I assure you that the pocket watch is quite beyond repair and of no comparison to your own. If you are in need of an extra eye, on the other hand, well, I have one spare and in need of a good home.”

I felt a faint colour spring to my cheeks. “Holmes, however could you know that I had glanced at those items, I barely touched them… but I confess it does seem an odd collection to be carrying around with you. The blue glass did catch my, um, eye.” I chuckled. “I apologise, I did not disturb anything?”

Holmes chuckled silently, and poured himself a cup of coffee. “No, you did not, at all. I am teasing you. My nature is obsessive, as you know, and I have a frustrating tendency to notice when an item is moved the merest fraction from where I placed it last. I suppose that those two items piqued your curiosity.” He yawned languorously and pushed his untasted breakfast to one side. “I have to go out for a while this morning, Watson, I anticipate returning by midday, all being well. What are your plans?”

I wiped my lips on my napkin and pushed myself back into my chair.  
“I was thinking of writing up one or two old cases of yours. ‘The Pickled Bombardier’ has been lying in rough draft for quite long enough, and I fear that if I do not do something with it fairly soon then I shall forget the details altogether.”

“Ah,” Holmes smiled in reminiscence. “The Bombardier was an odious fellow, to be sure. I look forward to reading your account of him and his cronies in The Strand at some point, then.”

“I shall be sure to make a start on it today,” I replied, touched and no little pleased at Holmes’s unexpected interest in my writings.

Holmes glanced away out of the window to the street below. The rain had ceased some minutes previously, although some city folk were still holding umbrellas aloft, perhaps in paranoia of an imminent return.

“I see a break in the clouds, Watson. I am going to make my way. I shall be with you in a few hours, then.” So saying, he arose from the table, tapped the ashes from his pipe into the fireplace, dallied for a few seconds, and then turned to depart, catching up his coat on the way. I raised my hand in farewell, and he was gone. A few coals tumbled in the grate, and I stood up to stretch my leg before wandering across to revive the embers before settling down with pen and ink.

There was a small, screwed up scrap of paper, not quite burnt, which had tumbled from the flames and lodged between the metal grid. I bent to retrieve the ball, realising that Holmes had surely tossed it there while emptying his pipe not a minute before. Smoothing out the paper, I stared for a moment at the words written there. In unhurried, neat capital letters it read:

TAKE NO ACTION OR YOU WILL REGRET IT.

Below this the author had signed their name or an initial, but the fire had licked at the edges and all that remained was an elaborate, sharply curtailed “N”.

I stood for a moment, racking my memory for any of our foes whose name began thus, but could think of none. With a sudden guilt at having retrieved and read that which Holmes had attempted to destroy (albeit however carelessly) I threw the scrap back into the fire and watched as it flared and died to black. Slowly, thoughtfully, I made my way to my writing desk, pulled out my case notebook and a small supply of white paper, dipped my pen and began to write.


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes returned to 221B on the stroke of noon, such was his habit for punctuality. I feared his business had once again gone slightly awry, for his eyes blazed and his cheeks were spotted with a high colour. He flapped in my direction upon my greeting and crossed immediately to his writing desk.

“I must write a letter,” said he, by way of explanation. “And we shall be expecting a visitor at 2pm. You are very welcome to sit in if you have nothing better to do.”

“I should be delighted to assist in any way I can,” I replied. “Might this be in connection with your meeting of this morning?”

Holmes grimaced. “No,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “No, it carries no connection.” Whereupon he sat and commenced to write, left elbow propped on the edge of his desk, hand pressed to his forehead in concentration. I surveyed my friend for a minute, but as he continued to fill the page with scrawl, I turned my attention back to my own endeavour. I had fully completed my account of ‘The Pickled Bombardier’ and was very pleased with the end result. A morning well spent; perhaps now a spot of lunch, and then to be present for Holmes’s visitor two hours hence. I was curious to enquire as to the name of our intended guest but did not wish to disturb Holmes, who was still scribbling away furiously. Eventually he flung his pen to the pot, shuffled the sheets into an addressed envelope, sealed it, and tossed it to one side.

“There,” he said softly to the empty space before him, “I can do no more at present.” Raising his voice and addressing me directly: “Our visitor later today will be a Mr. Victor Burroughs, in case you were wondering, Watson. He has a pressing problem which requires our attention. I know few of the details save those which he relayed to me when I encountered the gentleman this morning.”

“Very well, Holmes. Are you quite all right, my dear fellow?”

Holmes stood and moved across to his favoured chair by the fireplace. He seated himself gingerly, and looked to me with a searching expression.

“I think that I should be, Watson. I find that arguments which go round and around within themselves with pointless interjection and no helpful resolution are exhausting in the extreme.” He quirked a half-smile from the corner of his mouth. “I had something of the sort this morning and have no wish for a repeat performance any time soon, I assure you.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Holmes. If it is a matter which is troubling you then I do wish that you would share it with me.”

“Not all problems can be talked away so easily. Sometimes they are best left alone, and sometimes they resolve themselves. At any rate…” Holmes dismissed the sentence with a wave of his hand.

“But you are not in any… danger, Holmes?” I pressed.

Holmes observed me, his grey eyes solemn. “No. Not immediately, at any rate,” he added.

Upon hearing these words I felt a small chill. I stood and walked behind Holmes’s chair, laying my hand gently upon his shoulder, unable to assuage the flutter that passed through me at the tentative contact. For a split-second Holmes appeared to freeze beneath my touch. He exhaled; my hand remained.

“I would wish you to tell me if you were in danger,” I said quietly, and added: “for you know I do care and worry for your safety.”

Holmes lifted his hand to brush against mine. “Watson. Thank you. I do know and appreciate it.

By the way,” said he, “if you are wishing to luncheon then you had better do so now, otherwise there will be scarcely time before the honourable Mr. Burroughs blesses us with his appearance.”

“I shall, then. Would you like for me to post your letter on my way down?”

Holmes blinked. “There is no need. I will carry the letter myself later. Go! Lunch!” He drew up his long legs and lit himself a cigarette, a substitute for his own repast.

So it was that at 2 o’clock that afternoon we were all three of us sat at different vantage points around the sitting room of 221B: Holmes having not moved from his fireplace chair, myself on a hardback at the table armed with notebook and pencil, and our guest perched alertly upon the sofa, glancing rapidly from one to the other of us. Victor Burroughs was a man in his early 30s, perhaps, of slight build, with a clean-shaven and pleasant open face framed by a thinning crown of blond hair. He was dressed smartly yet simply in a dark grey suit which became him very well. His eyes were the most extraordinary cornflower blue, which seemed to glitter and pool as he spoke, and I could not help but reflect with amusement upon our glass replica which still sat in ocular isolation upon Holmes’s chemistry table.

“So as you see, Mr. Holmes,” said the young man, who had barely paused to draw breath for 10 minutes - having revealed precious little in the way of precise detail but a surfeit of detail regarding the eccentricities of his Aunt Augusta and the crumbling brickwork of her estate. “So as you see, that is my peculiar story and I invite you to make of it what you will.” He sat back with an air of expectation, as if Holmes should now produce a magic wand to wave and pronounce the mystery solved in absolute. Holmes stirred, folded his arms behind his head and slowly opened his eyes, where they fixed themselves upon the middle distance.

“Yes. Thank you for your account of the events. Let us recap quite briefly, then. Your reclusive Aunt Augusta lives alone in a somewhat rundown gables in Surrey. She suspects foul play of some nature as personal items are disappearing from her rooms with appalling regularity. She retains few staff, and those she has she trusts implicitly. None of the items have been recovered, no sign of forced entry, no signs of disturbance, etcetera, etcetera.” Holmes pinched the top of his nose between two fingers. “From which rooms were the items in question taken?”

“They were all removed from rooms on the upper floor, Mr. Holmes.”  
“Well that is suggestive. And were the items of any value, or of a common type?”  
“No, that is the oddest thing. The items had no value to speak of, and were quite various. Enough for a man to stuff into his pocket and be away, but I cannot explain why these thefts should occur over such a prolonged period of time.” The gentleman scratched his chin in puzzlement.

“I daresay I can look into this case for you and your aunt. Pray give me her details and I will pay her a visit within the next day or two, if that is convenient.”

“Yes, that would be most convenient, thank you Mr. Holmes. Perhaps an afternoon appointment would be preferable, as my aunt’s sleeping patterns are erratic - she quite often does not rise before noon. She would so like to greet you personally.”

Upon which, and having supplied the lady’s address, Victor Burroughs shook both our hands and departed 221B Baker Street. We heard him whistling out in the street below, and Holmes huffed an amused sigh.

“This case is a trifling one at best, going by the account from our young friend, but we may as well look into it seeing as how things are so morbidly flat of late. I should welcome your company on the trip to Surrey, Watson, if you are amenable.”

“Any time, I shall be there, Holmes.” I replied, happy to be of use. Holmes flickered his grey eyes in appreciation, and rose languidly from his chair.

“I would be lost without my Boswell.” said he, vanishing quietly into his bedroom.

I took the opportunity to gather my papers together and to collect the several items I had prepared for mailing to my publisher. I thought perhaps that Holmes should be pleased if I assisted by including his own letter in with my small pile. I crossed to his writing desk and glanced at the address displayed on the envelope laid there, my hand absently reaching for it. With a sudden sharp intake of breath I withdrew, the letter untouched, the thought forgotten. I hurried from our rooms to carry out my own errands, my upturned collar a poor harbour against the returning rain.


	4. Chapter 4

The rain which had stubbornly persisted without being overly abhorrent eventually turned into a torrential downpour. I arrived back at 221B drenched to the bone and cursing. Mrs. Hudson caught me at the door with a volley of commiseration and tongue-clicking and I was glad to see her, for one question among many had been worrying me this past hour.

“Mrs. Hudson, the gentleman who called on Mr. Holmes earlier this afternoon. Was he the same young man who delivered the note only yesterday?”

Our landlady considered the question as she aided me with removing my sodden coat, but then shook her head. “No, I am almost certain that it was a different gentleman, Doctor. I must say I was quite taken with our visitor today. Such charming manners. Should we be expecting him again?”

“I really have no idea,” I replied vaguely, as I retrieved my coat with a thankful smile and began to head back up the seventeen steps to the inviting warmth of our sitting room. I could not decide if I should be relieved or further frustrated by my erroneous deduction, but concluded that it was high time to confront Holmes with my findings. If there should indeed be the possibility of danger then I needed to be prepared; I could not bear to sit by and watch helplessly without being in possession of the truth. I stepped up and entered our rooms to find Holmes standing by the window, holding the omnipresent blue glass eye up to the light and examining it intently.

“Watson!” said he, “I have an inclination to have a fixing made for this beauty so that I may wear it upon my watch-chain in the future. Now what do you say to that? Most singular, wouldn’t you agree?”

I gawked incredulously at the polished orb which Holmes now displayed proudly for me, turning it this way and that as if I had never witnessed such a thing before. “But…Holmes, that would be a most bizarre bauble to have at your waist. If you have a fancy for such an adornment then I would have thought that perhaps a sovereign - or something similar - would be more appropriate?”

“Bah! Watson, don’t be ridiculous,” Holmes pocketed the glass. “Why on earth should I elect to have a dreary sovereign dangling around which imparts nothing to me when I could have an item far more intriguing such as this! My dear fellow, my mind is quite made up.” He rubbed his hands in anticipatory glee. I shook my head in despair.

“I think I should not ask from where you obtained this eye,” I said, wagging a finger at him.  
“Well, from Bart’s, of course. An old acquaintance, shall we say, who has passed on to higher plains. Watson, please do not believe for a second that I make a habit of plucking the eyes from passing strangers on a whim - because that would conclude in a tiresome jail term for me and a disturbing loss of sight for the poor, beleaguered pedestrian.”

“Holmes,” I pleaded, attempting to cut through the fantastical talk and anchor us both back down to sanity, “we really do need to discuss an important subject. Could we sit by the fire for just a moment?”

“You are wet. You would not rather dry off first?”  
“No, I wish to talk first.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips, but demurred. When we were both seated across from one another, I took a deep breath and wondered how on earth I should begin the conversation. Clearing my throat, I plunged in.

“Before I went about my errands a short while earlier, I had the sudden notion of posting that letter of yours after all.”  
Holmes’s eyes narrowed, and he spun his head around sharply as if to make certain that the letter still lay untampered with upon his writing desk, but he remained silent. I continued.  
“I saw the address on the front of the envelope. It was addressed to an eminent Doctor, one of the most respected practitioners of hypnotic therapy in his field.”  
“Yes, I am aware as to whom the envelope was addressed, Watson,” Holmes snapped irritably, “I wrote it myself, so I should think I might have a general idea. What of it?”   
“The Doctor in question is an expert in the field of congenital homosexuality, Holmes. I am given to understand that seventy-five per cent of his cases are so related. If an… acquaintance of ours is in trouble and requires help… I mean to say, does this relate in any way to the note that you received yesterday evening?”

Holmes bolted upright in his chair and blazed a furious look in my direction.  
“How on earth did you know of the note, and what it contained? Why do you suddenly take it upon yourself to blunder so intrusively into this business? You mention a seventy-five per cent, but what of the other twenty-five per cent? You are not in possession of all the facts, but tell me, what do you know of this?” My friend began to rise in indignation, but thought better of it and sank back down in his seat. Surprised fury was spread across his face. I flushed with mortification at my evident insensitivity but nonetheless felt resolute.

“I apologise sincerely, Holmes. I really am most terribly sorry. I found the unburned scrap in the grate, and was alarmed by its implications. Mrs. Hudson advised me of the delivery, but please do not take her to account for that. Is it that to which the note refers, some poor client or friend of ours is being threatened with blackmail, possibly worse?”

Holmes did now finally spring to his feet, to snatch his cigarette case from the table and to light one of the slender rolls inside with agitated fingers. Exhaling the smoke impatiently and glaring at me askance, he tapped out a syncopated rhythm against his forehead and leaned against the mantel.

“Watson,” said he, softly, “there are issues here which could implicate a man’s liberty, his peace of mind and the wellbeing of others. You must forgive me therefore if I do not sit down with you now and go through the minutiae. You are well intentioned, and a very dear friend and valued companion to me, but I must beg you, please, to desist from this line of questioning for the present. For as I have said, you are not in possession of the full facts.”

“Very well, Holmes, I shall not speak of it again for the time being. But could I at least ask one last question?”  
“You may,” he replied, with some effort.  
“Who is ‘N’?”  
“’N’?”  
“The note I found in the grate was signed by a person with the initial ‘N’.”

Holmes stared at me, then a flicker of comprehension crossed his face.  
“’N’, as you so put it, is no-one who need concern you, the identity is of no import. My dear fellow. Please.”

I nodded, and bumbled my excuses to escape upstairs to my room; ostensibly to change from my damp clothes but rather more to gather my scrambled thoughts into a coherent whole. I had barged in with my insensitive interrogation and Holmes had quite rightly deflected my questions to protect his unnamed client. I would abide by his wishes not to interfere further. The topic was so close to my own heart, however, that it pained me to do so. Yet how could I persist without showing my hand? Holmes was dearer to me than any living being; the fear of his discovering my secret affection and thus forever shunning our friendship - that which I treasured above all things - was too great a risk for me to take.

I startled suddenly at a gentle knock upon my door.  
“Watson, are you still in there? I trust we are still on for Surrey tomorrow? How does dinner at Simpson’s this evening sound to you?”

I smiled and pressed close to the door, where I imagined Holmes on the other side standing anxiously awaiting my response.  
“Yes, we are still on, and dinner sounds wonderful, Holmes. I shall be with you shortly.”

For the moment, I was forgiven. Tomorrow we would head out for our first meeting with the ethereal Aunt Augusta, and Holmes would dazzle and shine and present his miracles of deduction. One day at a time. One day.


	5. Chapter 5

Holmes received a reply telegram from Augusta Burroughs on the Wednesday morning, confirming our appointment for 3 o’clock that same afternoon. We remained in the vicinity of 221B until noon; I absorbed in my case summaries, and Holmes sprawled upon the carpet in the middle of the sitting room with papers in a maelstrom around him, intent upon indexing his most recent notes and news clippings. Neither of us alluded to our altercation of the previous afternoon. Nonetheless, despite my promise to Holmes I held every intention of remaining alert to future mail deliveries and unfamiliar visitors. My friend is unfortunately on occasion more relaxed as regards his own personal safety than I should prefer.

The early afternoon saw us on a train bound for Surrey. A short drive in a hansom brought us to the gates of the lady’s property. Straightaway I observed that young Victor Burroughs had not told us an untruth: the house was indeed in a most unfortunate state of disrepair, with missing roof tiles, shabby brick and flaking paintwork. The surrounding grounds were wild; a small chipped water fountain on the front lawn choked and overgrown with weeds.

“The lady appears to have fallen on hard times,” said Holmes, as we crunched up the gravel path, “or her eccentricities are such that she simply does not notice the condition of her estate. Watson, look up there!”

I looked upwards, and spotted several birds with pale plumage emerging from the attic rooftop, where a small but significant hole was visible. I chuckled.  
“They have no doubt made a fine nest for themselves in there, Holmes. I wonder how Aunt Augusta must sleep with the flapping and twittering directly above her head?”

“Well, according to friend Victor his Aunt does not sleep particularly well, and now I begin to understand the reason why.”

We arrived at the front door, and peered in through the murky side windows before ringing the bell. After some 30 seconds we heard light footsteps in the hall, and the scrape of the heavy bolt being drawn back. The door opened, and a young maid wearing a plain aproned uniform looked hesitantly out at us.

“Good afternoon, miss,” said Holmes civilly, “we have an appointment to see Mrs. Augusta Burroughs. Here is my card.”

“Thank you, sir. If you would both like to step inside and wait in the drawing room?”

We were left alone in the dusty drawing room, and turned to take in our surroundings in fascinated dismay.

“My goodness,” said I, “this whole place could do with a spruce-up and a fresh coat of paint.”

Holmes nodded. “I would think that this room is used very seldom, owing to the musty odour. Dear me, I’m loath to sit down anywhere. I think I may remain standing - quite possibly for the remainder of the day. Watson, stop laughing this instant!” He placed his hand upon my sleeve in remonstration while I continued to guffaw.

“I think it entirely feasible that the Aunt’s missing items may have merely grown invisible beneath the thick blankets of dust,” remarked Holmes, as he circuited the room with his hands drawn behind his back.

“Gentlemen, good afternoon.”

We spun around to greet the lady of the house who now stood in the doorway, an inscrutable expression upon her face. I prayed that she had not heard Holmes’s jest; Holmes himself appeared unfazed.

“Madam, good afternoon to you. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. Your nephew Victor has supplied me with some basic information regarding your case, but I should much like to hear the story in your own words.”

The lady nodded and stepped into the room. Augusta Burroughs was tall, exceedingly thin, bordering on emaciated. In her advanced years she wore her grey hair up in a tight bun; her eyes were kindly but held no spark of inner life. Dressed in a sombre dark-blue dress which bore a ragged lace decoration at collar and wrists, she presented to us a lonely, forlorn figure. She sat down now upon an overstuffed armchair by the window which looked out upon the lawn, and smiled sadly at us both. “Very well,” said she, “I shall tell you of the strange happenings, and then I do hope that you will be able to shed some light upon the matter, for it is quite unnerving to me. Aside from my maid and cook who are my only staff, I am simply not sure who to trust anymore.”

I perched upon the edge of a sofa placed adjacent to the fireplace, and smiled encouragingly at our host to commence her narration. Holmes stood close to my side and inclined his head. The lady sighed faintly, and began.

“I am a widow; my husband died some seven years ago. The only member of my family with whom I am close is my dear nephew, Victor. I am somewhat of a recluse and do not venture out very often. That is why it is so alarming for me to have my sanctuary disturbed, Mr. Holmes. Over the last month I have been awaking every other morning to find that one more item has vanished, never to be seen again. They are such insignificant items, I cannot comprehend who should take them, or why. I take pains to ensure that the doors are securely locked, every window fastened, that there is no possible means of entry for any thief, and yet in he comes, and he takes my possessions away with him to who knows where.”

Mrs. Burroughs broke off suddenly, and drew her hand to her mouth in emotion. I tutted in sympathy, and felt Holmes’s swift glance upon me. The lady took a deep breath and continued.

“As my Victor may already have informed you, the stolen items were taken from the upper rooms only: the spare bedroom, the bathroom, the storage room, and from the landing itself. Such small possessions: a china trinket, a keepsake box, a framed picture, a glass dish. Why would they take such things, Mr. Holmes? Why?”

My friend stirred. “Could you tell me when the last theft took place, Mrs. Burroughs?”

“Yes, it was two nights ago. They seem to occur every other night. This time it was a tiny wooden doll.”

“I must ask this question, madam. I do not wish to cause upset, but do you have any enemies who might wish to frighten or distress you for any reason? Do you have any doubts in your mind about your two staff?”

“I trust both Jane my maid and Sally the cook completely, Mr. Holmes. They have been in service with me for many years. I have no enemies - I remain in solitude so how could such enemies even be acquired? I believe my quiet nature to be hereditary - my siblings and parents were as reclusive as myself, as were their parents before them. It’s bewildering to me how the family line has continued at all.”

Holmes twitched against me and I heard his low huff of amusement. “I should very much like to investigate the upper rooms of the house,” said he, “but before I do so, might I speak briefly with Jane and Sally?”

“Yes, of course. Please follow me, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson?” And we followed the lady through to the servants’ quarters.

Fifteen minutes later Holmes and I emerged together, granted full access of the house.

“Well, that was singularly uninformative,” said Holmes, humming and brushing his sleeves. “The maid and the cook are entirely clueless and unobservant, and undoubtedly innocent of these crimes. Come, Watson, let us explore the upstairs of this pile.” Whereupon he took my arm and we ascended together to the landing.

A thorough examination of the landing and its off-shoot of rooms revealed little to Holmes, for he grunted and tutted in disappointment as he worked. After a secondary swift appraisal of the ground floor, we convened in the main hall where Holmes stood and tapped thoughtfully at his chin.

“I have a tentative hypothesis, Watson,” said he, “but it is a capital error to spring to conclusions in advance of the facts. As the thefts are most often taking place every other evening, then we are due a visit tonight. I propose that we stake-out the upper floor and see for ourselves exactly what is taking place here.”

“An overnight stay, Holmes? But we did not bring a change of clothing or kit -”  
“An oversight on my part, Watson, but for one night it cannot make much difference. Let us speak with Mrs. Burroughs first of all and see if she is agreeable.”

The lady acquiesced with touching gratitude, and the maid was promptly despatched to make up the spare room for us. Holmes excused us both for a couple of hours so that we might dine at the local inn and take some respite from the oppressive gloom and drab of the old house.

“She is a curious bird,” said my friend, over a pint of ale in the inn’s private nook, “and yet I am glad that we took on this case after all, for it holds some measure of interest.”

“Do you foresee any element of danger, Holmes?” I asked.  
“One can never tell. My theory says not, but we would be wise to be prepared just in case. Did you bring along your revolver?”  
“I did. I know better by now than to leave it at home when we are out on a case,” I chuckled.

Holmes smiled at me. “Good old Watson. Come, let us return to the house before the maid sees fit to shutter the windows and bolt the doors and we are forced to make camp in the fountain bowl.”

Together we left the inn and set out on the short walk home, our nocturnal adventure stretching ahead of us like so many stars in the sky.


	6. Chapter 6

When we arrived back at the house it was quite late, the air chill notwithstanding the fire which still burned in the small sitting room. Mrs. Burroughs was seated by the hearth, a book upon her lap, her head nodding forward with weariness. She startled to attention as we entered the room, and I felt contrite that we had not thought to knock beforehand.

“Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson,” she smiled. “I am glad you have returned, for I am ready to retire now.” The lady stifled a yawn, and placed her book to one side.

“I hope that we did not keep you too long,” said Holmes. “Forgive me, I understood you to suffer from an insomnia, but that is not the case?”

She pointed to a small bottle on the table. “My sleeping draught.” She yawned again, and rubbed at her eyes. “However, I do not care for drugs and so I do not take it every night. When I do, such as tonight for example, I shall be sure to sleep soundly.”

Holmes smiled in a mysterious fashion. “By the way,” said he, “regarding this whole affair, were the local constabulary of no assistance to you at all?”

“I did not consult them, Mr. Holmes,” she replied with a shrug. “I do not trust the police and I did not want them tramping around my house with their big boots, asking their questions and thinking me a dotty old woman. My Victor told me that he knew of a clever and kind gentleman who might help, and so here you are, with your friend.” She arose from her chair and made for the door with a nod to us both. “I will call Jane to help secure everything for the night, and then you are free to continue your investigations, Mr. Holmes. Thank you so much for your assistance, I really am very indebted to you both.”

The lady left us, and we remained for a moment to enjoy the last vestiges of warmth. Holmes picked up the sleeping draught and glanced quickly at the label, then he too was heading for the doorway, beckoning to me to follow him upstairs.

Our room was a twin-bedded one, compact and neat, with a door ideally facing the length of the landing. I sat down upon one of the narrow beds and looked across to Holmes, who was stood at the window with the curtains slightly parted, gazing out at the night sky.

“I do believe the maid dusted in this room today, Watson,” said he, turning back with a twinkle. I chuckled softly. My heart was brimming in delight from the afternoon and evening we had shared in Surrey. Holmes had been attentive and affectionate, placing his hand to my sleeve or my shoulder in conversation, standing closer to me on occasion than I could ever recall. I wondered with a sudden pang if this was merely my friend’s awkward form of apology for the outburst of the previous day, and if on the morrow he would revert to his customary friendly yet faintly aloof demeanour. I gazed at the close proximity of the two single beds, then thought of our dearth of overnight supplies and blinked in sudden realisation and anxiety. I glanced quickly at Holmes, who was perched upon the edge of his bed casually loosening his tie and seemingly unperturbed.

“We must turn off the light very soon and keep the door quite well open, so that we may best see and hear what occurs - if anything should at all.” he said, looking to me. “The moonlight illuminates the landing wonderfully.”

“As you wish, Holmes,” I replied. I leaned across and extinguished the lamp, and the room was plunged into darkness. Holmes moved to join me on my bed which was nearest to the door, and together we peered out into the casting shadows. All was silent save for an occasional faint flapping overhead and the intermittent groaning of an old house settling itself down for the night.

“I rather hope we shan’t have to remain like this all night, Holmes,” I whispered.  
“Would you rather we take shifts then?”  
“No, it is quite all right. I should not be able to sleep for wondering what might be about to happen.”  
“With any luck we shan’t be kept waiting very much longer,” said he, leaning forward to rest his elbows upon his knees and cup his chin in his hands.

Two hours were passed in this fashion. Midnight tolled and still we sat, tense and alert. Then, at a little after half-past twelve, we heard the creak of a door at the far end of the landing. Holmes grabbed my thigh, and we both held our breath as our eyes strained to focus upon the shape which now gradually appeared.

Augusta Burroughs, barefoot and clad in a long white nightdress, moved slowly along the landing towards us. She hesitated, seemed to consider, then turned to her right. She rattled the doorknob of what I supposed was the storage room. Taking a key from a long piece of cord around her neck, she unlocked the door and vanished briefly from sight. Seconds later she reappeared with something small clutched in her left hand, using her right to close and relock the door behind her.

“Holmes -”  
“Ssh, Watson, pay attention to what she is doing.”

The lady crossed to the window and caressed the leaded pane. She walked a little further on and raised a hand to tug ineffectively at a small framed portrait nailed to the wall. Then abruptly she turned and headed in the direction from which she had come, slowly and deliberately, until reaching her bedroom at last. The door shut softly, and Holmes and I gazed down the empty landing in silence as if nothing untoward had just taken place.

“Holmes - Mrs. Burroughs is a sleepwalker!” I exclaimed now, turning to my friend.   
“Yes, Watson. I suspected as much and now here is the proof. In her heightened state of paranoid anxiety as regards the security of her home - recall how she referred to it as her ‘sanctuary’ - and the effects of the dosage of sleeping draught, her disturbed mind has been sending her out on nocturnal explorations this past month to remove miscellaneous items here and there and hide them safely away. Now, exactly as to where, we must ask of the lady tomorrow morning. Well, I think we might turn our thoughts to rest, now, Watson. I have quite a severe crick in my neck from this uncomfortable posture.”

I relit the lamp to a low gleam and shut our bedroom door. Holmes was already beginning to remove his waistcoat and unbutton his shirt. I stared at the bed. I removed my jacket, tie and waistcoat. I dared not cast a glance towards my friend, who was now commencing to unfasten the top of his trousers. I shuffled out of my shoes and stockings, hoping against hope that my face was not flaming too brightly, praying to every God that ever existed that I might not be embarrassed by those feelings which I had long suppressed and which now were clamouring loudly to be released.

From the corner of my eye I spied Holmes standing in his underwear, neatly folding his trousers and placing them across the back of the chair. I could hardly stand how beautiful he appeared to me now, almost luminous in the glow of the lamplight; his skin smooth, toned, muscular, too much, far too much. I shed my own clothing down as quickly as I possibly could, and leapt between the cool sheets, cursing my lack of self-control. I once again extinguished the lamp, and there we lay, in intimate silence, a couple of feet of frayed carpet between us which may as well have been the almighty chasm of the Grand Canyon. And then -

Holmes softly cleared his throat before he spoke.  
“I may not post that letter of mine after all, you know.”  
I turned my head slightly towards him. “You may not?”  
“No. I do not subscribe to that form of… therapy. I am informed that there is only a 50% success rate in any case, and of that I am positive that at least 49% are barely speaking the truth.”  
I blinked rapidly to make sense of what Holmes was trying to tell me.  
“You cannot alter nature, after all,” he continued.  
“Holmes, I -”  
“It was not my wish to write the letter, there was a certain pressure placed upon me to do so.”   
“I’m still not sure I understand what -”  
“Oh, Watson, Watson!” In despair. “I am obtuse. You are obtuse. If I am making a fatal error of judgement now then so be it, but I have tested a theory today and was not disappointed by the results. I think that tonight is not the right moment to be having such a discussion, but I cannot remain silent like this, it is destroying me. Watson, I am from that other side of the 50% and I am quite happy to be so. I do not wish to offend you but I confess that I care very deeply for you and might dare to hope that you feel something of the sort also. Now will you please say something coherent that doesn’t end in a stutter and a stall?”

“Holmes, I’m not altogether certain that I am able to!” Breathlessly.  
“Well, see now, you just did,” Holmes laughed. “That is still not an appropriate reply, however.”  
“I feel the same way, Holmes, I always have. I am actually quite at a loss for words this instant, you must forgive me.”

Holmes rustled in the bed sheets and turned to face me.  
“I am glad,” said he, “for I am not sure what I would have done otherwise.”  
He stretched out a hand across the abyss. I reached out mine also and our fingers clasped together and clung on. I felt as though I never wanted to let go.


	7. Chapter 7

The fragile light was pushing through the windows when I awoke, forgetting where I was for one brief moment as I blinked to focus. Sherlock Holmes was sitting in the chair by the window, fully dressed, with his fingers steepled under his chin, scrutinising me with careful grey eyes. We observed each other for several seconds until Holmes smiled.

“Good morning, Watson,” said he, softly.  
“Good morning, Holmes,” I replied, “have you been awake for very long?”  
“For an hour, perhaps less. It is not quite yet 8 o’clock. Did you sleep well?”  
“Quite well, considering that the house is strange and the bed is lumpy.”  
“Also considering that your frankly deranged room-mate professed his regard for you a short while prior to that.”

I sat up in the bed and ran a hand through my hair.  
“I can still barely believe it.” I reached out to him. “Holmes, please come here for a moment.”

Holmes hesitated, then uncrossed his long legs, stood and moved to my side. He sat down carefully upon my bed, placing his hands awkwardly in his lap. He looked at me shyly from the corner of one eye.  
“I am here now.”  
“Yes, I see that.” I ran my fingertips gently up and down his left arm, wondering at the feel of him, at the freedom to do this without fear of rejection or disgust. Holmes covered my hand and pressed it to him.  
“We will talk of this later, when we are safely back at 221B,” said he. “In this respect we are now as strangers again, with a new history to create and much to learn.” He paused. “There are certain facts about me of which you are not aware, or perhaps you may have guessed but never voiced. At any rate - all this must be later.” He tapped my hand, released me, and stood up from the bed.

“I will leave you to get dressed,” he said. “I will be downstairs in the sitting room when you are quite ready.”

~~~~

I was washed and dressed within 10 minutes, and entered the sitting room to find Holmes alone by the fireplace, smoking a cigarette.

“Jane the maid is waking Mrs. Burroughs,” said he. “She should be with us shortly, and we might finally bring this case to its denouement.”

The door opened again as he spoke, and the lady appeared, dishevelled due to a hasty dressing, with her bun a bedlam of curling grey wisps. Holmes bowed slightly and she nodded, gazing blearily at the two of us.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said she, patting feebly at her hair, “it is so early, I have not had time to make myself properly presentable for you. Do you have good news for me?”

“I believe we do, madam, or at least an explanation.” Holmes motioned the lady to an armchair, and set about informing her of the night’s detail. Her eyes grew wide, and she clapped a hand to her mouth in astonishment.

“Oh dear me! Dear me,” she repeated to herself over and over. “Yes, I keep a safe storage for valuables, but it never occurred to me to open it this past month, for it is such a secret place and it has a coded lock to which only I know the combination.”

Mrs. Burroughs led us upstairs to her room. She crossed to the panelled wall behind the bed, pressed a finger into the side of one panel and touched a spring. The panel slid down to reveal a safe box, which the lady turned the dials of with trembling fingers. The box door swung open, and the lady gasped, her hands flying up to her face.

“There they are!” she exclaimed, “My china figure, my dish - oh, Mr. Holmes, everything is here!” She rummaged frantically through the pile of items, and then turned to us with a smile of joy.

“I have been so very foolish, but I cannot tell you how relieved I am now. It was such a simple matter after all.”  
“I am happy that we managed to solve the problem to your satisfaction, Mrs. Burroughs,” said Holmes, dryly. “Might I suggest that you either abandon or adjust your sleeping draught in future, for your current dosage appears to disagree with you. Watson and I will take our leave now, for we have much to do back in London and had not anticipated an overnight stay. A very good morning to you.”

~~~~

We arrived back at Baker Street before midday and ascended the stairs to our rooms, I think both of us now slightly anxious as to the interaction ahead, for we had spoken very little on the train journey home. The fire had recently been rebuilt and the room was warm. Holmes tapped my arm and crossed to his writing desk. Catching up the offending letter of two days past he tossed it into the flames, and we watched it burn and shrivel. He turned to me with a triumphant grin.

“And now I must send a telegram,” said he, pulling a telegraph form from his desk drawer and scribbling down a few brief lines. “There!” Opening the door of our sitting room with the form clutched in his hand: “Mrs. Hudson!” Striding to the landing to bellow down the stairs: “Mrs. Hudson!”

The form thus despatched via our long-suffering landlady, Holmes carefully shut the door and turned back into the room. I had been standing quietly by thus far, but now was moved to action. I walked across to my friend, placing my hands around his upper arms. My thumbs caressed his collarbone through the thin barrier of shirt cloth, and I looked into his eyes which flickered and blinked as though attempting to relay a distress signal in Morse Code.

“Are you all right?” I asked him gently.  
Holmes had forgotten to breathe, for he gulped in air now before he spoke.  
“Yes…” A pause, then a rush of words: “I think I should tell you that all of this is quite new to me and I do not know exactly what I should do or how I should react. I never wanted… this before.”  
“We don’t have to rush into anything, Holmes, we can take it as slowly as you like.”  
“Well, not so slow as all that,” said my friend, arching an eyebrow, “for neither of us is getting any the younger after all.”  
“Holmes, you’re 32 years old, hardly an octogenarian.” I drew him closer to me all at once, cradled his face in my hands and pressed my lips gently to his own. Time dandled as we slowly, tentatively explored each other’s mouths for the first time. Holmes’s eyes were shuttered, his face flushed, his hands gripping fast to the sides of my waistcoat as though they might flail uncontrollably should he release them. I have no idea for how long we kissed, caressed, sighed into each other. When we eventually parted, reluctantly, our foreheads touched together still for some seconds before we stepped back.

“My word,” breathed my friend. “No-one ever told me about that.”  
“It gets even better,” I replied, grinning back at him.  
Holmes chuckled. “I believe you. My God.”

We moved to sit together on the sofa, hands tangling affectionately in the other’s hair.  
“Holmes, would you tell me more about that wretched letter now?” I asked.  
Holmes sighed. “You are the most persistent man that I ever met,” said he, “you really cannot let things rest, can you? Here it is, then: on Monday I went to meet with someone whom I supposed to be a confidante, to confess to him the impossible situation I found myself in with you.”  
“Impossible situation?”  
“Yes. You know the situation to which I refer, Watson, please don’t be dense, my boy. My… confidante - I’m using the title loosely now - was much perturbed and desirous that I should not reveal my nature to you. We argued the matter around for several hours, at the end of which I stamped back here in a black dog of a temper and frightened poor Mrs. Hudson half to death.”  
“You certainly did, Holmes.”  
“Hmm. I have still to apologise for my behaviour that evening. At any rate, after receiving that infuriating warning note I returned to have it out the following morning. Another furious quarrel ensued - all entirely your fault, Watson - the culmination of which was an appalling pressure placed upon me to seek advice from the specialist whose name you recognised on the envelope.”  
“It’s all becoming clear to me now, Holmes. What a terrible situation, my dear fellow. Might you tell me now the name of the confidante?”

Holmes fisted his hand abruptly in my hair, and I gasped at the pull.  
“Later,” said he with a hum of wicked deliberation, as he drew me in for another exploratory kiss.


	8. Chapter 8

One hour later Holmes and I were seated at the dining table partaking of two bowls of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent fresh vegetable soup. As we ate, we stole shy glances at one another: small, secret smiles, a look away then back again. So much time we had wasted already - five years endured in platonic courtship! - and yet to think now of all the time that stretched ahead of us! I reminded myself that from my friend’s point of view the odyssey of a romantic relationship was still foreign and unchartered; however I was resolute that we should overcome any and all of the obstacles which might strew across our path.

I was aware also that everyone within our small circle of friends and acquaintances believed Sherlock Holmes to be a remote, unfeeling automaton, incapable of any of the softer emotions - love - physical desire. I knew otherwise, now, and I ached for him. To lie by his side, to touch his skin, to press my tongue to his prick, to cry out, to possess and bring him to glory - Oh! The prospect of waiting - a day, a week or a month - until I be invited into his bed felt the most delicious agony to me.

“Watson, you have the most curious expression on your face,” said Holmes, interrupting my daydream, “what are you thinking of?”

“You,” I replied, as honestly as I was able, jabbing a finger at him impolitely. “I find that you’re all I can think about, you impossible man. Very many more of those delicious kisses of yours and I shall be incapable of forming any coherent sentences for the foreseeable future.”

Holmes chuckled. “Do you assume that anyone would be able to tell the difference, my dear fellow?”

I might have been tempted to launch a bread roll at my friend’s noble forehead had it not been that just at that moment we heard a heavy knock upon the downstairs door. Holmes groaned.

“For once I am dearly hoping that is not a client.” said he, flinging down his napkin.

After a brief wait we heard footsteps upon the stair and a light knock at our sitting room door. Mrs. Hudson entered, bearing a small envelope.

“A telegram just arrived for you, Mr. Holmes,” said she, and handed it to him. Holmes’s face darkened.

“I think I can guess who that is from,” he muttered, slicing at it with the butter knife. He removed the sheet and glanced at it. “Ha! As I suspected. Mycroft bites back.” He tossed the paper across to me. “Read it, it will answer your query as regards the first note and confirm the identity of the so-called confidante.”

I picked up the sheet and read:

DO NOT PURSUE THIS RECKLESS ENDEAVOUR SHERLOCK STOP YOU KNOW I WORRY ABOUT YOU STOP CONSTANTLY STOP MYCROFT

I raised my head in puzzlement. “The original note… of course - the last bar of the ‘M’ had burned away so that I supposed it to be an ‘N’… But who is Mycroft?”

“Mycroft is my brother and only sibling,” said Holmes, “and my elder by seven years.” He smiled at my look of utter astonishment. “I have not mentioned him until now, I realise. However, Mycroft and I are not particularly close and I saw no reason to bring his name into a topic of conversation between us, my dear fellow. And now, of course, with his singular lack of understanding, here he comes barging in - metaphorically.” Holmes wiped off the butter knife and proceeded to turn it between delicate fingers with an intent focus upon its distorted reflection.

“But if you are not close then why should you go to him with such a confession, Holmes?” I asked, suddenly fascinated by my friend’s complicated family history.

“I had no-one else to turn to, Watson. I felt as though I was losing my mind, and desperation can make a man act in ways he might later have cause to regret. I am sorry now, for instead of a friendly shoulder and brotherly advice I received a lecture, an argument, and a hostile warning.” He sniffed contemptuously. “I do not think that Mycroft would carry out his threat, but he is being very tiresome all the same.”

“What is his profession?”

“Mycroft works for the British government. In fact, some say that he is the British government, for he holds an extraordinary degree of influence and power, yet at the same time manages to retain relative anonymity. You, for example, had never heard of his name. This situation suits him very well. He spends a great deal of his time at the Diogenes Club, a haven for unsociable gentlemen. And Mycroft is unsociable to an even greater degree than I.”

“I should like to meet him,” I said thoughtfully.

Holmes all but dropped the butter knife. “Good God, but why? That would be akin to poking at a hornet’s nest with a pointed stick. What is the use in provoking the man? He is irascible enough as it is. Leave it alone, Watson, the squall will pass. In a month’s time we will both likely have been forgotten about, and his attentions will move on to haranguing some unfortunate lackey within his department. Mycroft does like to keep himself occupied.”

“Do you intend to reply to the telegram?”

“No. I shall leave him to worry. Constantly, apparently, but rather likely for no more than 10 minutes.”

Holmes stood up from the table and stretched. He caught me staring entranced at all his angular symmetry, and huffed.

“Watson, you must behave and not look at me in that way with those cow eyes. I don’t know what to do with them, it’s barely 2 o’clock in the afternoon. If you carry on like this I will be a nervous wreck. Can’t you smoke a pipe or something?”

I burst out laughing, struck by the humour of it rather than the unintended slight, and Holmes eyed me aggrievedly. He stalked across to his chemistry table and fiddled with the test tubes. He looked back at me over his shoulder, it was for barely a second, but I caught a brief glimpse of a smirk before he turned back to his chemical preparations.


	9. Chapter 9

We did not hear from Mycroft Holmes again until the following Monday. Holmes and I spent those intervening days in a steady courtship. Our passionate kisses thrilled me. I found my friend a fast learner in this regard for he excelled in teasing and pleasuring almost simultaneously; raking my mouth with his lips and teeth and covering my face with butterfly wings. He was eager to nuzzle and lap at my neck, and to clutch me tightly to his chest while I tousled his black hair free of its slick of brilliantine and kissed at his throat - which vibrated so sensually against my mouth that I barely resisted the overwhelming urge to bite. Yet, still, he would not permit me to climb atop him. Any impassioned attempt on my part resulted in a regretful but absolute halt to the proceedings from Holmes’s quarter. I recalled the promise that I had made before the pleasure of our first intimacy and I pressed no further.

So it was on the Monday morning, then, that Holmes left 221B at 9 o’clock with the express intention of calling upon our friend Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. With cases at present still few and far between, he was hopeful for a sniff which might prevent the return of one of those recurrent fits of black ennui which laid him prostrate on the sofa for days on end: barely moving or speaking, but filling the room with a constant fog of noxious strong tobacco smoke. I was as keen as my friend that something of interest come along soon to occupy us.

I ventured out myself a short while later. After my usual forays to Bradley’s and the confectioner’s I returned home via the newsagent, armed with a heap of daily news. I took the steps up to our sitting room two at a time and flung the door open wide.

A corpulently large gentleman had been sitting in Holmes’s own chair by the fireplace. At my abrupt entrance he leapt in startlement almost clean into the air, scattering snuff in all directions. Tutting and vexed, he retrieved the small tortoise-shell box from where it had fallen on the hearth rug, and dusted down his lapel with a silk handkerchief.

“Good gracious!” said he, “Dear me!” He glared at me as though it were his own rooms which had been so intruded upon.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I was not expecting company,” said I, recovering myself from my surprise. “Might I enquire as to who you might be?”

The man rose slowly from the chair. In addition to his obesity he was also decidedly tall, giving his overall appearance the edge of superior menace. His hair was dark but thinning; his eyes were the same piercing grey as my friend’s, the gaze as inscrutable.

“I did not announce myself to your landlady, I am afraid,” said he, solemnly. “I let myself in by -” here a vaguely suspicious flutter of the hand, “- hm, yes. You must be Doctor John Watson. My name is Mycroft Holmes; I am Sherlock’s elder brother.”

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” said I, outwardly cool but inwardly roiling. “You are quite correct in your conjecture. Your brother has spoken briefly of you to me.”

Mycroft Holmes raised his right eyebrow as far as it would go. “Briefly? Five years! Well. I admit that I hardly make a frequent visitor of myself - but then again, neither does Sherlock - so I am hardly surprised. Would you mind if I sat down again, Doctor? For I am not overly used to vigorous exercise and the walk here was rather longer than I had anticipated.” He seated himself before I could speak. “Thank you.”

I crossed to the breakfast table and deposited my pile of newspaper. “I apologise for Holmes’s absence. He has some business to attend to, but he should return fairly shortly.” I sat down on a chair and picked up ‘The Times’, feeling awkward and at a loss for appropriate conversation with the imposing elder Holmes brother, who carried so many similarities to his sibling but none of the coiled energy, none of the flamboyance or charismatic drive which I so admired in my friend. Mycroft eyed me from his fireside torpor, and smiled very faintly.

“I will wait. I would not relish the prospect of making the same journey twice in one day.”

So we waited, without speaking; the tension as I was experiencing it quite palpable. I scatter-read my way through half of ‘The Times’ before we heard the front door below slam, and Holmes’s familiar tread upon the stair.

Holmes burst into the room in high spirits. “Watson! What do you make of this!” he boomed. He was seemingly about to show me something from his pocket, but was cut off by the sight of the figure at the fireplace once more jumping several inches into the air.

“Sherlock, for pity’s sake! What is it with the residents of this house? Is no-one capable of entering a room quietly?” Mycroft Holmes plucked agitatedly at his handkerchief. “I mean, really, it’s almost as though I’ve strayed into the middle of Piccadilly Circus at the zenith of its hubbub.”

“Mycroft,” said Holmes, with a quick glance in my direction, “good morning. I was not expecting you.”

“I know, and yet I am here. Behold, it is a miracle. Do sit down, Sherlock, I cannot continue twisting my neck around to you in this manner for very much longer.”

Holmes scowled and crossed to the chair opposite his brother.

“What have you to say, then?” he asked, reaching up for his pipe and packing it with a large pinch of shag. “I thought we had exhausted every angle of the subject, but that is apparently not the case.”

“Sherlock, you cannot despatch odious telegrams to me without expecting some verbal, written or physical manifestation.”

“Yes, I already received the written manifestation. Hence my surprise at the physical variant.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers.

“I see you paid no heed to my advice,” said he, “and you have gone ahead and revealed yourself. Hm hm, and with a positive outcome too, I observe.”

Holmes looked to me again. “I suppose you deduced that from our connection of a moment ago. Well, I shall not attempt to deny or obfuscate. Watson and I have come to an understanding. However, we are most definitely not in need of misguided interference from an outside source. We will not be threatened, Mycroft.”

Mycroft slapped his hand down upon the arm rest. “Threatened? You came to me for advice in the first instance, and I offered it to you, you ungrateful pup. I did not approve of your dilemma, and you must know me well enough that I would not stand by as milksop at the premonition of my brother’s downfall.”

“I do not intend to have any manner of downfall,” said Holmes, quietly. “I cannot and will not change. You gave me a tirade of bluster and instruction rather than comfort or advice. I must thank you on one account, however - it did compel me to stand up and make my feelings known, and thank heavens those feelings were reciprocal.”

“I see that they are,” replied Mycroft, looking across as I sat dumbstruck before the unfolding melee. “The Doctor’s face does not tell a lie. Speak up, Doctor Watson, if only to reassure me that you have not mislaid your tongue.”

“It is true,” I said, “but what interests me now is what you propose to do about it.”

“Do? Do? What can I do? Have my brother and yourself thrown into jail on account of it? I will do nothing. I cannot approve, but I will not condemn now that it has reached such a pass. I see now that you are essentially a good man and will not knowingly hurt my brother. I trust he will behave accordingly towards you. I wished to see you together to judge for myself, and now I have seen. So - Sherlock, Doctor Watson - I will take my leave of you for I am certain you do not wish me around any longer than is strictly necessary.”

Mycroft Holmes struggled to his feet, and walked a couple of steps towards the door. He hesitated, stopped, then turned around. He nodded to us both.

“Good day, Mycroft,” said Holmes, who had risen from his chair also. “Thank you.” he added, softly.

“I wish you well, Sherlock, I always have, if only you might believe it.”

And so saying, Mycroft Holmes opened the door of our sitting room and departed, his heavy footfall resounding down the staircase.

“My word,” Holmes whistled through his teeth, “Jupiter left its orbit. I suppose we should feel honoured, Watson.”

“I feel only as though my nerves are shot to pieces, Holmes. Do you and your brother always converse like that?”

“I admit, it is usually more civil. Brother Mycroft has had a trying week of it, it seems. At any rate, we appear to have emerged unscathed, although I had no real doubts.” He chuckled. “You may grow to eventually enjoy Mycroft, Watson. I think with time his opinions should mellow.”

“I look forward to that day, Holmes.”

My friend moved to me, and took me in his arms, rocking me gently. I rested my head against his shoulder, and breathed him in: the smell of tobacco, vanilla, warm skin. I wondered how I could have existed for so long without it.


	10. Chapter 10

“What was it you were wanting to tell me, Holmes?” I asked my friend some minutes later that same day. Mycroft’s visit had disoriented us both, I think, and we were attempting to regain some degree of normalcy. Holmes flung the newspaper he was sheafing through to one side.

“Ah! I had quite forgotten, and here it sits in my pocket still,” said he, fumbling for a small package which he placed proudly upon the table. Unfolding the cloth, he revealed the precious blue glass eye, now resplendent with gold fixing and attached securely to a new watch-chain.

“It is quite ridiculous, Holmes.”  
“On the contrary, it is utterly beguiling. And it is not you that has to wear it.”  
“Was that all it was? I thought that Lestrade had presented you with a triple murder at the very least. Did he have nothing of interest to say?”

Holmes shrugged. “One or two problems that the Scotland Yarders are struggling with - hardly worth my time. I pointed them in the right direction on one case there and then: A faked suicide - from the evidence of the artist’s paint brushes, the colour palette, the knife blade under the lower sash window - it’s all been done before. The trial of Merriman & Pettigrew, 1872, if my memory serves me. I must check. Such blindingly obvious clues! But the Yarders scratch their heads and wear out their boot leather and nothing gets done. At least now they stand a sporting chance. Lestrade advised that he would call us in if no progress is made.”

I smiled. “You are extraordinary.”

Holmes looked coy, but pleased. “You see, now I am more susceptible to your flattery. I knew I should never have declared myself to you, it leaves me open to all kinds of manipulations.”

“The only manipulation I’m currently interested in,” said I, “is this one -” Holmes dodged out of the way, but I took off in pursuit. “And this one!”

“Nipple tweaking is bad sport, Watson,” he complained. “Now do sit and pay attention. I need to consult my Index on Merriman & Pettigrew, and I wish you to take notes.”

~~~~~~~

Inspector Lestrade was true to his word and did indeed visit us at 221B later that week. After Mrs. Hudson announced him he hovered in the doorway, twisting his hat in his hands, a small pained smile upon his face. His features were almost as those of an anxious weasel, as he had such a pair of small beady eyes, which had a tendency to squint and flicker in concentration - most often when being spoken to by one Sherlock Holmes, Esq. Lestrade was the best of the Scotland Yarders - “the pick of a bad lot” according to my friend - and Holmes liked and respected him sufficiently to extend a warm courtesy whenever he paid us a call.

“Gentlemen, a very good afternoon to you,” said he, “I wonder if I might intrude upon you for a moment. It is the most curious thing.”

“Lestrade, don’t stand there on ceremony, you are letting in a terrible draught,” said Holmes, waving him into the room. “Shut the door and sit down upon the sofa, and tell us all about it.”

For several days my friend had been rattling around 221B in an agitated state of encroaching boredom. I had attempted in vain to divert him with various recommendations of books he might enjoy to read, and did my best to encourage him to take up once more with his half-written monograph on the varied feathers of wild birds, but nothing held his interest for more than a moment. “Look at this nonsense,” he had growled, waving a letter in front of my face only a day earlier, “a young lady has mislaid her favourite bonnet and she is much distressed. She wonders if she might engage my services to locate said bonnet. Dear me. Is this the level to which I have fallen, Watson? - running a detective agency for the absent-minded?”

A happy chance, then, that the Inspector should bring temporary relief this day.

Lestrade sat down and placed his hat neatly beside him. “It is that confounded painter suicide,” said he, “we have come up against a brick wall with it, Mr. Holmes.”

“I thought that you might,” said Holmes, without malice, “what seems to be the problem?”

“Well, we carried out your advice, and we -” the Inspector broke off suddenly, and stared. “Mr. Holmes, whatever is that object on your watch-chain?”

“Never mind about that, please continue with your dialogue.”

“Well, as I was saying, we took your advice and examined the paint palette. We contacted all knife-sellers in the area but it turns out that the knife in question is a strange one - a rare Sioux. So either the victim had been on his travels prior to his demise, or - if it is not a suicide, Mr. Holmes - then we are looking at a complex something indeed.”

“Did you examine the hairs on the paint brushes?”

“Not yet, Mr. Holmes, we were focused upon the palette itself as advised by you.”

Holmes tutted in exasperation. “You need to analyse the hairs - if the data you obtain does not correlate with the palette then there is your answer in part. The Sioux should be followed up on as it was not used in its usual function as a weapon. The victim was poisoned with no signs of physical attack; the knife was found under the lower sash, unbloodied.”

“We will get straight on with the paint brush hairs and the knife. Another thought occurred to me, Mr. Holmes…”

The conversation continued on in this vein for 30 minutes more. I was heartened to watch my friend sat to rapt attention, his grey eyes full and intense with the pleasure of the brainwork. As the talk turned gradually to sundry chat and speculation, I excused myself to my room. Holmes and I had made tentative plans to dine out at Marcini’s that evening; I thought I might brush out my evening wear in advance. I heard Lestrade take his leave, noisily, and then a silence. Holmes must be researching his Index, I thought, as I removed my jacket from the wardrobe. I heard a soft step upon the stair. There was a tap at my door.

“Come in.”

Holmes entered partway. He hung in the doorway.  
“Lestrade has gone. I informed him that he was an imbecile and he took exception.”

“Holmes, did you really?”

“Yes. But he will recover. He has too much of an ego to be wounded for very long. I now find myself in need of alternative amusement.”

I looked up. “Is that a fact?”  
“Yes, I think so.”  
“Then you had better come further into the room, because I cannot reach you from over there.”

Holmes walked across to the bed and sat down. He fixed me with a hot look. All of the air in the room suddenly seemed to concentrate around him; I could barely breathe. I moved to stand before him, then between his legs which he parted for me, and I reached out to touch his cheek, softly, with my thumb.

“Watson?”  
“Yes. May I?”  
He nodded.  
I placed a hand upon his chest and gently pushed him backwards onto the bed. I followed him there, propping myself up on both arms to look down into his eyes, my body not quite yet touching, delaying the pleasure for as long as possible. Holmes’s eyes were wide and pooled, his breathing shallow as he gazed up into my face. I leant forward and placed a soft kiss to his lips; I licked at the corners of his mouth; I raised back just a fraction.

“I have to have you soon,” I whispered, “I am going quite mad.”

Holmes exhaled all at once; the tension shuddering out of him. He gasped and bucked involuntarily. I finally - finally - pressed my full weight down upon the length of him. I felt his body in all of its lines and firmness; I felt his hardness there. My own need was so great I could hardly bear the sensation of him. I kissed him now desperately, and his hands flew up to grab at my hair. I bit his throat, I did not care anymore; I gnawed his collarbone, he moaned in desperation, writhing beneath me. We tore at buttons, too many, there were too many buttons, why did shirts have so many buttons? Smooth chest, warm skin, a tongue pressed to it, tasting heat, tasting him. I rubbed his prick through the trouser cloth; he groaned, insensible. Neither of us capable of speech now unless it was in some miracle tongue, for we had transcended (descended?) to some guttural state of desire. I unfastened and removed his trousers, underwear, somehow, and shrugged myself free of my own. When finally we were both naked, I fell upon him again. Skin, his skin, beautiful, trembling.

“I want you so much, tell me what you want.”  
“Oh God, I want everything, I don’t know, Watson, for God’s sake -”

I moved down then and took him into my mouth. He cried out - clawed at the sheets, I think, I heard him, but could not see - and he bucked desperately. I tongued up and down his shaft, I took him deep; I released him and slavered at his ball sack. Again, again; all for him. I felt him tighten already, close enough, and I drew back.

“Not yet.”  
“Ah! But - _Watson!_ Damn you, you -”  
“John.”  
“John. _Damn you._ Ah!”  
“Tell me what you want.”  
“This relationship is _over!_ Ah, oh God, for mercy’s sake…”

I took him then, I didn’t prolong the agony. I grasped his achingly hard prick and frigged him with long, smooth strokes. He took hold of my own and fell in with my rhythm; our mouthed kisses were rough and wet, spasmodic, in spasm. It might have taken a minute, five, more; time had stopped, time was irrelevant; all that remained was love, want, need. Holmes came to glory first, eyelids fluttering, a long, low wail from his throat. I followed a moment later: gasping with pleasure, wet heat across us both.

We separated, on our backs, legs entwined, unable to speak until our breath might catch up.

“John,” he whispered.

“Sherlock,” I tried out his name for the first time, and laughed. “It does sound odd. I might never get used to it.”

He chuckled. “You don’t have to. I am not fond of it in the slightest.”

“That… was all so very sudden,” I said, twisting to look at him, so beautifully bare and debauched there upon the sheets.

“I don’t know. I only knew that I wanted you terribly and didn’t want to have to wait any longer. It was revelatory, John.”

“For me also,” I said, softly. I kissed his cheek, wrapping my arms around him. “Now, tomorrow, my love… Tomorrow I think it would be a good idea for you to wire Lestrade to apologise for putting that bee in his cap. And then he might let you assist with the painter suicide case. And then you won’t be bored. How does that sound?”

“Manipulative…” I heard Holmes murmur, and then nothing more, as we drifted gently into peaceful slumber together.

\- END -


End file.
